






qrsv * v ^ -y^. # ^ -saps <? % <y 




t Ha\\, Frederick, 



A TRIP 



Ml 



FROM 



BOSTON TO LITTLETON, 



THROUGH THE 



NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



BY B. K. Z. 



' y °f Was' 

WASHINGTON. 

JACOB GIDEON, JR., PRINTER. 

1836. 



PREFACE. 

These hasty Letters were scribbled, more than two 
years ago, for the amusement of the traveller himself, 
and the perusal of a beloved Niece, who was left at 
home to keep the fire burning. They, shortly after, 
made their appearance, at the urgent solicitation of the 
Editor of the Baltimore Patriot, in his Paper. They 
are now printed — not for the use, or abuse, of that 
great personage — the Public — but for the gratification 

of MYSELF. 

B. K. Z. 



A TRIP FROM BOSTON TO LITTLETON. 



Concord, N. H., August 15, 1833. 
My Dear F.— 

I have placed myself al a little table to write you a letter. 
"And why have you not done it earlier? Why pass over more 
than half a thousand miles, without sending home a single syllable to 
give life to our lonely hours ?" For the best reason in the world. 
I had nothing to say. The ground we travelled over, you had been 
jolted on, again and again. Could I tell you any thing new of the 
city of " Brotherly Love," or of the " Renowned city of Gotham ?" 
I could only have reiterated the hundred times " told tale," thatthe}'- 
are both large cities, and that the prosperity and enterprise of their 
inhabitants are daily rendering them larger, and richer, and more 
magnificent. And what could I have said of New Haven — that fa- 
vored seat of Science and Refinement ? The long range of her lofty 
temples of learning, you know, full well, have, for scores of years, 
reflected the light of knowledge, and of life eternal, over the dark- 
ened and guilty earth. What of Hartford ? — that " scorned" city of 
the misnamed " Seditious Convention ?" The bones of Hooker, 
whose enraptured spirit is now singing, with archangels, anthems of 
praise to " Him who sitteth on the throne," rest here, in unmolested 
quietude. I passed a moment in gazing at his grave, and reading the 
half obliterated chronicle, carved on the stone that covers it. The 
noble edifices, which adorn the back grounds of this thriving city, 
attract the stranger's eye, as he stands on the steam-boat deck, 
winding her way up the broad Connecticut to her destined moor- 
ings. The philanthropist's countenance brightens, when he is in- 
formed, that in these ornamental and spacious buildings, the child of 
misfortune, the deaf-mute, the more favored youth, who loves to 
climb the rugged hill of knowledge, and " crazy Kate," are all en- 
joying blessings of no ordinary character. It would have been loss 
of ink, and paper, and time, to have told you^that the old " Charter 
Oak" still stands on the acclivity of the little hill, reluctantly bending 



bis stiffened branches before the impetuous northern blast. " Yes, 
indeed, it would, for I have idled away many a sunny hour of my 
school-day girlhood, under its broad and cooling shade." I remember 
it well. But when we entered the metropolis of the north, we had 
gone beyond the parrallel of your latitude — we had reached a region 
of the Union, whose objects possess the charm of novelty — at least 
for you. At Boston, then, let the journal of our travels commence. 

Here we saw much to entertain and delight us. Among the first 
objects visited, was one of Scottish origin. It was an exhibition of 
four statues, large as life, wrought in hard stone, by the self-taught 
artist, Thorn, viz : Tarn O'Shanter, Souter Jonny, and the Land- 
lord and Landlady — an exhibition of thrilling interest — an exhibition, 
the objects of which will render imperishable the reputation of the 
unlettered sculptor. Who has not read, and split his sides with 
laughter, while reading, Burn's "Tarn O'Shanter?" That is des- 
cription, graphic, indeed. This is chiselled reality, no less graphic. 
There, the ear listens, and is delighted. Here, the eye — a better 
sense — gazes and is charmed. 

We spent an evening and a morning at Nahant — inhaling the re- 
viving sea breezes. This is a pretty little village — neat, and, at this 
time, full of bustle. It has one large hotel, which is thronged with 
visitants. Nahant is a fashionable retreat for the Bostonians, during 
the roasting heats of summer. In returning to Boston, I was pleased 
to meet, among our boat companions, an old acquaintance, the Rev. 
Dr. Kirklancl — late president of Havard University, as sprightly, and 
as enterlaining as ever. His lady was with him. Half an hour I 
passed, delightfully, in listening to the story of their wanderings on 
the old continent. No other Americans have ever enjoyed such fa- 
cilities for gaining valuable information. They were allowed access 
to nearly all the most interesting curiosities of Europe, Asia and Af- 
rica. It was, to the small party which gathered around the speaker, 
a " feast of reason." I had often read descriptions of the pyramids 
of Egypt — of the Holy city — of the Ottoman monarch's seraglio ; 
but. how unanimating — how frigid are these, in comparison with the 
oral relations of travellers, of die highest worth, who, but yesterday, 
clambered up these pyramids, in persona, paced the magnificent 
halls of the Turkish Sovereign's palace — and walked over the identi- 



cal ground, which drank in the hlood oi" the Son of God ! This 
imparted to our bosoms heart-felt pleasure. It was next to being 
ourselves in those oriental regions — breathing the mild air of Pales- 
tine, or ransacking the mummy pits of old Thebes. 

We passed a pleasant, mournful hour, in riding over the sepul- 
chral grounds of Mount Auburn, and in viewing the costly dwellings 
of the dead. The territory, consecrated to this holy purpose, is rug- 
ged, as the surface of the stormy ocean, and mostly overspread with 
trees, and brushwood, of natural growth. It is spacious, containing 
many acres, and is divided into different tracts, by beautiful roads, and 
serpentine avenues, each bearing the name of some forest, or horti- 
cultural plant. The tombs are, as yet, "few and far asunder," but 
are fast multiplying. Several are now being built — others, recently 
completed, are waiting to be occupied. Here and there, one is al- 
ready tenanted. They are all built of massy blocks of granite, and 
closed with pondrous iron doors. We paused a moment before the 
"long home" of Hannah Adams, the historian, whose mortal remains 
were the first interred in the romantic and picturesque grounds of 
Mount Auburn. It is surmounted by a neat marble monument. 
Here, too, repose the ashes of Ashmun — the Negro's friend, the 
friend of man, and of God. These enclosures, though not yet. popu- 
lous, 

"Death, the great proprietor of all," 

will shortly fill. What a countless multitude of the rich, and the 
great, will another century see congregated in this sequestered 
Aceldama! And yet, who can refrain from casting an eye still 
further onward, to the gloomy day, when, in the hoary age of 
our now happy Republic, a new race of Goths and Vandals will 
tear open these strong holds of the dead, and scatter their contents 
to the four winds. 

We visited, repeatedly, the gallery of paintings at the Athenae- 
um, among which the admirers of the works of the pencil might lin- 
ger for weeks, and then go away unsated — a collection, in which we 
saw many of the richest pioductions of the old painters, and some of 
the most celebrated pictures of the modern descendants of Apelles. 

We were greeted with a hearty shake of the hand, by numerous 
old friends — shared largely in their unbounded hospitality — talked 



over the deeds of other years — recalled to vivid recollection the fro- 
lics of our college days, when the heart was young, and shot its ten- 
drils into other congenial hearts, intertwining and interlacing, till a 
union was formed, which the roll of years, and the fluctuations of 
fortune, have no power to dissolve. We surveyed the changes — and 
they are marvellous — which twenty years have wrought in this city 
of the pilgrims — now filled with magnificent palaces — built of ever- 
lasting stone — built for eternity. After passing four days, delight- 
fully, in this Athens of New England — where riches, and learning, 
and hospitality all cluster, and flourish together — where opulence has 
its homage, but science its higher homage — we reluctantly bade a 
last adieu to the few associates of our youth, who are still spared from 
the dust — and took our departure from the Tremonl House, (and a 
better hotel we have never seen) in the stage for Lowell, drawn by 
six prancing steeds. Crossing one of the long bridges, which be- 
stride Charles river, I could not help casting a " longing, lingering 
look behind," and saying within myself, Farewell, Boston, a long, 
an everlasting farewell to the city I love, above all others on earth, — 
where I have whiled away many an happy hour, in years that have 
flitted by, never, never to return. 

Wc passed through Mcdford, Woburn — the birth-place of the 
late Count Rumford — Billerica, and Chelmsford, noted for its ex- 
haustless quarries of beautiful granite, of which many of the most 
superb edifices in Boston are built. We saw the busy labors of the 
Rail-road, which is shortly to link Lowell, the manufacturer, to Bos- 
ton, the mart of her wares. We saw the Middlesex canal — the 
oldest in the Union, bearing, on its bosom, boats, loaded with iron, 
and coal, and cotton, all destined for the place of spools. Suddenly 
the stage stops, amidst a little Babel — a throng innumerable of people 
of all tongues, the noise of rushing waters, and the rattling of a thou- 
sand machines. Driver, what city is this? There was nothing here 
twenty-five years ago. "No, nor fifteen, sir. But it is no city ; 
it is the village of Lowell. " A village ! It should be a city. It is 
the Manchester of America. What a bustle! what a scene of activi- 
ty ! I have witnessed nothing like it on this side of the Atlantic. 
Here, Industry throws her shuttle, and out springs a fabric, which is 
destined to travel over half the globe, to adorn the fair daughters of 



Eve, in Maine, in Ohio, in Mexico, on the scattered islands of the 
Pacific, or to warm the shivering limbs of her hardy sons in far dis- 
tant regions of the North. The stage gave us no time to breathe — 
it whirled onward, while we were counting, I know not how many, 
elegant churches, and steepled school-houses, and long and lofty fac- 
tories, filled with flesh, and bones and spirit, all toiling, bee-like, for 
the rest of their race. Lowell, like the setting sun, soon fell below 
our horizon. 

We crossed the Merrimac on a substantial wooden bridge. This 
river, owing to its windings, its rapids, and its shallowness, is far less 
favorable to boat navigation, than its sister stream, the Connecticut, 
which laves the western boundary of New Hampshire. In traversing 
Pelham, Windham, Londonderry and Bow, we observed nothing of 
peculiar novelty, or interest, to engage our attention. The country 
appeared, every where, judiciously husbanded and prosperous — the 
crops abundant — orchards bending under ponderous loads of fruit — 
chiefly the apple — we saw no peaches, and but few pears. One of 
the most agreeable objects, which these townships presented to our 
organs of vision, was the numberless fields of wheat, seen on every 
hand, mature for the sickle, and agitated into a myriad of unspeakably 
beautiful waves of gold by a gentle breeze — fields, too, where, in my 
boyish days, little, or no wheat was grown, nor were the lands, 
then, deemed capable of yielding to their cultivator, so rich a reward 
for the sweat of his brow. 

We reached this place — Concord — just as the goddess of night 
began to spread her sooty mantle over the face of wearied nature. 
The darkness was premature. Half an hour before our arrival, the 
sun went down behind a dense, shaggy, menacing cloud, which 
shortly extended itself over the whole celestial vault. The lightning 
now streaked athwart the sky, shooting out its zig-zag ramifications 
in every imaginable form — the thunder roared and rolled, like the 
sound of a hundred cannon, followed by its long-continued echo — 
the windows of heaven were open wide, and the rain was poured 
down in torrents. 

Resolved to see, what could be seen, under such inauspicious 
circumstances, I took my umbrella, and, venturing forth, under the 
pel tings of the merciless storm, soon saw enough to convince me, that 



8 

Concord is one of the largest, and handsomest villages in New En- 
gland. It is huilt near the Merrimac, on an extensive plain, limited 
on the north hy a large tract of alluvial land, formed by the river, 
and rendered as exhuberant by it, as the richest in the valley of the 
Mississippi, or of the Nile. The public buildings are, a large, well- 
proportioned state-house, constructed of granite, of an excellent 
quality, which, we are told, is indigenous in this neighborhood ; a 
state-prison, built of the same material; an academy, town-house, 
bank, and four or five meeting-houses. The number of dwellings is 
about two hundred. They are ranged, chiefly, on two long parallel 
streets, situated on the west bank of the river, and wear the appear- 
ance of uncommon neatness. They are all commodious — some ele- 
gant, and a few of them are splendid, and furnished with large and 
tasteful gardens. 

At one of the hotels in this village, we had the good fortune to 
meet that accomplished man, Matthew St. Clair Clarke, Clerk to the 
House of Representatives of the U. S. , busily occupied in transcribing 
old records, found among the archives of New Hampshire, in obedi- 
ence, we believe, to an order of Congress. 

Yours, ever, 

B. K. Z. 



LETTER II. 

Centre-Harbor, August 16, 1833. 

My Dear F. — 

We were torn from the arms of Morpheus this morning, by 
the noisy stage-driver, and posted off, before cock-crowing, north- 
ward. Passing from Concord to Boscawan, in the early twilight, we 
were pointed to an island — Duston's island — situated near the mouth 
of the Contoocook, where Mrs. Duston, an inhabitant of Haverhill, 
Mass., with the story of whose captivity by the Indians, you are fa- 
miliar, raising her valorous arm, nerved by insult and the fear of the 
gauntlet, slew, and scalped her inhuman captivators, and effected her 
escape. 



We breakfasted at Franklin, formerly a part of Salisbury, in the 
old house where Daniel Webster, the Orator, the Statesman, the 
Defender of the Constitution, passed his boyhood — he was born in a 
dwelling a few rods distant. At table, we were amused by the 
talkativeness of a decently dressed man of the mountains, whose 
hoary locks told us, that fourscore winters had travelled over his 
head. He gave us, in his vernacular language, a number of 
aencdotes respecting the Senator's father, and some of the occurren- 
ces in the greener years of the Senator himself. 

"Judge Webster," said the old man, " kept this house, and a 
plagy good one it was. too. I've put up here a hundred times in 
my day. Every body thought a dreadful deal of the old Judge. 
He was the greatest man in these parts, I tell you. He did putty 
much as he was a mind to, and, by gingo, he always did right too, or 
the people thought he did, and that was the same thing !" Did you 
ever see Daniel, asked one of our party, when he was a boy ? 
" See'd him ? yes, a thousand times, and Zeke too. I've seen 'em 
both dance a jig in that are yard thare," pointing to the door-yard. 
What do you mean by that, said I. — " Why, I put up here one bit- 
ter cold night, and told the old Judge, I wanted to have my horse 
water'd and fed arely, 'cause I meant to jog on a piece before break- 
fast, and so he told the boys to do it. But when I got up in the mor- 
ning — and it was a nation sight later than I thought it was — I went 
straight to the barn, and I'll be choak'd, if the cretur had a mite of 
hay, or oats, or water. I was darn'd mad — that's sartin — and went, 
putty quick step, and told the Judge. lie tared right up, and bawl- 
ed out 'Zeke! Dan!!' and gave 'em sich a trimming, as they 
didn't want to have agin, I tell you." 

When we had become satisfied with our repast — and what Parisian 
gourmand would not be satisfied with such a multifarious dejeu?ie, 
it was a delicious meal — "I put down nothing in malice" — compo- 
sed of mutton chops, potatoes, cheese, apple-sauce, cucumbers, but- 
ter, three kinds of cake, two sorts of pies, pickles, two bottles of 
cider, coffee and tea — a rich and fashionable breakfast, I assure } r ou, 
in the estimation of the good people of these inland regions: and 
when we had become more than satisfied with the loquaciousness ol 



10 

our octogenarian, we re-seated ourselves in the stage, and moved off 
towards the north pole. 

The next township we entered was Sandbornton. In our progress 
this morning, we again crossed the Merrimac,or, as it is here called, 
the Pemigewasset; and shortly after, the Winnippiseogee river, or the 
eastern branch of the Merrimac. At Union Bridge, eighteen miles 
from Concord, our party were separated, and conveyed off in differ- 
ent directions, some for Haverhill on the Connecticut, and others on 
an excursion of pleasure among the White mountains. We, happen- 
ing to belong to the latter and less fraction, were placed in a smaller, 
and less commodious carriage, moved by the power — or rather by 
the weakness — of two worn-out steeds, -'ill-favored and lean-fleshed," 
and whose ribs were as distinguishable as the rails in the fence. 
You need not be told, that our progress was slow. The motion was 
like that of a French "Diligence," in old-time, just four miles an 
hour. 

At eleven in the morning, we reached, unexpectedly, a little, 
beautiful, bustling village, planted at Meridith Bridge, the seat, ap- 
parently, of more business, mechanical, manufacturing and mercan- 
tile, than any place I had passed, north of Lowell. From this 
interesting bee-hive, in which we saw no drones, our road lay in the 
neighborhood of several splendid sheets of water — more splendid than 
their names are musical — such as 'Great Bay,' 'Long Bay,' 'Measly 
Pond,'&c. Thirteen miles brought us to Centre-Harbor — the place, 
where my old steel-pen is now hard at work, drilling out an "inval- 
uable epistle" to transmit to you by the next mail. 

Centre-Harbor is a township, limited on one side by the Squam, 
and, on the opposite, by the Winnippiseogee, or, as the dwellers 
around it say, Winnippis-sogga lake. I like this pronunciation. It 
is said to be that of the Indians, and who does not know, that their 
sound of their own words is infinitely more musical than ours. 

This is as charming a spot, as the wildest imagination of the 
poet, or the novelist, ever led him to picture to himself. Here the 
boldest fictions of Asiatic romance become sober realities. You, 
my dear F., love to gaze at, and admire, the frolics, and the gran- 
deur of nature. How I wish that you, and W. and J., and your 
whole house-hold were with us, at this moment, to participate in the 



11 

ecstatic pleasure we feel in beholding the numberless beauties and 
sublimities, which the Omnipotent hand has thrown together within 
our present chequered horizon. 

Here, mountains are piled on mountains, till their lofty summits 
are literally lost in the heavens. Some of these enormous protube- 
rances are environed by gray, fleecy, floating vapors, which render 
it impossible to ascertain, where the land terminates, and where the 
sky begins. Some shoot their bald heads, tipped with silver, far 
above the world of clouds, that clothe, in thick darkness, their mid- 
way zones, and, in awful majesty, seem to hang suspended from the 
immeasurable heights above. A lake — nature's mirror, the largest 
in New England — pure and picturesque as that of the trans-Atlantic 
Geneva, dotted with a hundred — report says, three hundred and six- 
ty-five — islands, spreads itself before us. Good farm-houses and 
capacious barns, scattered among the distant hills — log cottages, re- 
cently erected, far up the rugged mountain sides — innumerable fields 
of wheat, diversifying the scene with spots of gold — orchards, loaded 
with the richest fruit — these, and a myriad of other objects, which I 
have not leisure to enumerate, go to constitute a landscape, whose 
beauty, and grandeur, and sublimity my poor pen possesses no pow- 
er to describe. 

We stepped from the carriage, just as a clock in a neighboring 
house, struck two — three or four hours after the steam-boat had taken 
its departure for the opposite extremity of the lake. A steam-boat! ! 
yes, a steam-boat, and a very convenient one, too, lam told, of ninety 
tons burden, here among the mountains ! The fact astonishes me. 
It was totally unlooked for. Does it not speak loudly in praise of 
the enterprising spirit, that dwells in this Alpine corner of our be- 
loved land ? 

As soon as we arrived, I procured of the inn-keeper, a fishing 
apparatus, stepped into a little boat, and, shoving off from the wharf 
into deep water, had the good fortune, in half an hour, to bring into 
another element four lusty fish — the only ones I had caught for twen- 
ty-six years. While attempting to beguile away from his home 
another of the finny tribe, 1 heard the well known voice of one, 
who stood on the margin of the glassy lake, cry "come to dinner." 
As in duty bound, and prompted by the yearnings of appetite, I 



12 

obeyed the summons— and the consequence was, the disappearance 
of two, or three fine, large pike, with the most gratifying accompani- 
ments. 

At four o'clock, we posted off from this fascinating place, — where 
the appetite and the eye had been sumptuously feasted — with the speed 
of a carrier pigeon. From Concord to Centre-Harbor, we had tra- 
velled in an extra stage. As no carriage could be procured in the 
latter village to-day, — they were all occupied in the conveyance of 
pleasure-seekers hither and thither — we were obliged to take our 
seats in a little Yankee tomtiddy, drawn by two powerful horses, 
stretched out "tandem," and managed by a legitimate great grand- 
son of Jehu, the old. We flew, John Gilpin-like, over twenty-four 
miles, in two hours and a half, and lighted, where we now are, at 
Atkinson's tavern, in Eaton. And, here, my second chapter, which 
is twenty-nine verses too long already, must have its " Finis." 

You are loved too well by 

B. K. Z. 



LETTER III. 

Eaton, August, 17, 1833. 
My Dear F. 

I went, early this morning, accompanied by our attentive land- 
lord, Mr. A., to examine the Eaton lead mine, from which an 
esteemed friend, in Fryeburg, Maine, sent me, some years since, 
a number of good specimens of galena and sulphate of lead. Brought, 
in our journeyings, so near to it, and being, in the language of Dow- 
ningville, a pretty considerable sort of a sciolist in geology, mineral- 
ogy, ichthyology, and many other ologies, I could not deny myself 
the gratification of taking a personal peep at this somewhat celebra- 
ted ore bed. It is situated three and a half miles south-east from 
our resting place. We rode two miles, or more, on a tolerably good 
carriage-road ; the remainder of the way was an ordinary horse-path, 
over which, however, teams, and, perhaps, carriages, formerly tra- 
velled. 

Ascending a moderate swell of land, we came first to a small, 
one-story building, which had been used as a boarding house for the 



13 

miners. Proceeding a few yards farther, we arrived at a number of 
heaps of galena and blende, broken into small fragments, and not 
more than fifty feet distant, was the source from which the ore had 
been derived. A shaft had been sunk — we know not to what depth, 
for it was filled with water to within eight or ten feet from the sur- 
face. 

There is no nook of earth, in these wild regions, where the 
Master's hand has not left manifold traces of His wisdom, and of His 
unlimited power. Standing on the platform of the shaft, and turn- 
ing your face to the east, you have, before you, a broad valley, dot- 
ted, here and there, with humble dwellings, beyond which, Ossipee 
mountain, rising to the height of two, or three thousand feet, covered 
with brushwood and a few straggling trees, of stinted growth, pre- 
sents to your vision his bold front. On the left, and a little below 
you, lies Cook's pond, a beautiful oblong sheet of water, overspread 
by a splendid carpet of white and yellow lilies, now in fresh bloosn, 
under which the darting pickerel play their gambols, little molested 
by the fear of man. This body of water appears to be an arm of Six 
Mile pond, along whose margin we travelled in the gray twilight of 
the last evening. On your right is a dense forest, composed, prin- 
cipally, of hard wood, of numerous sorts, growing on a slightly 
ascending plain. 

At a short distance from the ore heaps, is a large, two-story edi- 
fice, built of wood, and intended for the residence of the superintend- 
ent of the works — new, but wretchedly finished, and already rickety. 
It belongs to the sinking fund. Its foundation is giving way. One 
of the fire places has fallen into the cellar. The floors are almost as 
uneven as the hillocks in a maize field. The whole will soon be a 
ruin. We entered it. No voice bade us welcome. The stillness 
of Jeremiah's dungeon reigned in it. We walked through its echo- 
ing apartments, and found, in one of the chambers, a parcel of the 
ore, which had evidently been culled from, again and again, by 
mineralogists, in quest of specimens. They had, however, left one, 
which I eagerly seized ; it was a small piece of well characterized 
brucite. This edifice, to which the expression "fuit," will soon be 
applicable, cost, as Mr. A. informed me, two thousand dollars. 
After the expenditure of much labor and money on this concern, 



14 

the noise of the hammer has ceased. The blasts of the miner are no 
longer heard, echoing and re-echoing among the mountains. The 
buzz of active business no longer falls on the ear of the approaching 
visitant. The whole affair is abandoned, or, at least, the operations 
are suspended. " Why? Is the ore worthless?" No. It is less rich 
than that of Missouri. The galena — I judge from its appearance 
only — will yield from 25 to 40 per cent of metallic lead. This, 
surely, would more than defray the expense of working it. " Pray 
is lead in much demand?" Yes, it has been in use, in all ages. I have 
no time now to point out its applications, nor could I do it, in less 
than half a day, if I had leisure. As you are a young lady, how- 
ever, I will inform you, that the ladies of old Rome employed lead, 
in a certain state, as a cosmetic, or a beautifying commodity. The 
ancients used this metal, as the moderns do, to render harsh wines 
milder, but they were less guilty, or not guilty at all perhaps, for 
they did not know, as we do, that it was one of the most deadly poi- 
sons. Lead is much used in glazing earthenware : but I advise you, 
if you would avoid a sudden and painful death, never to eat apple 
sauce, or any thing sour, which has been kept in yellow earthen pots 
or pans. Through ignorance on this subject, many valuable lives 
have been lost. This metal is used for covering buildings, making 
aquaducts, &c. &c. 

The sulphuret of zinc, connected with the galena, is very abun- 
dant, and too valuable to remain here unappropriated. "I have 
never seen this metal. Is it much used ?" Not so much as it might 
be. Le grand usage du zine, says the Abbey Hauy, est de former 
le laiton par son alliage avec le cuivre. It is an important article 
in the composition, also, of pinchbeek, bronze, tombac, &c. It is 
more combustible than any other metal. You can set a thin leaf of 
it on fire by the heat of a candle. It may be pressed into thin plates, 
and applied to innumerable uses. In China, it circulates as a coin, 
and has a small square hole in it, that it may be suspended on a 
string. It is made into water pipes ; is employed in roofing houses ; 
is converted into medicine ; is used as a pigment. The gangue, both 
cf the galena and the blend, is quartz, mixed, here and there, with 
very brilliant specks of pink-colored fluate of lime. In the cavities of 



15 

the quartz, I observed several fine specimens of crystallized sulphate, 
and carbonate of lead. 

" Who are the owners of this property ?" They are numerous, 
I understand ; some residing in its vicinity, and some at a dis- 
tance. One of its principal proprietors lived in Boston, but has late- 
ly deceased. Another, a gentleman of science and of enterprise, 
belongs to the Monumental City, which all the world knows, means 
Baltimore. He passed some time in thi3 quarter, and had the good 
fortune, I am told, to impress on the minds of those, with whom he 
came in contact, a very favorable opinion of him, as a gentleman, and 
as a mineralogist. "Why does not this individual supply with lead 
the shot-towers of the city, he dwells in, from this mine ? Why 
does he not procure, from the Eaton blende, zinc, in quantum suf- 
Jicit, to overspread the roofs of the buildings, which are springing 
up, like mushrooms in an autumnal night, in all parts of that rapidly 
growing London of Maryland ?" Je ne peut pas dire. Had I his 
knowledge, and his purse, I would do it, or, at least, make the trial, 
and I have no doubt, that the concern, if judiciously managed, might 
be rendered lucrative. 

Night coming on, we left the hill, bearing away with us samples 
of every thing we had seen — not omitting the lilies — and cherishing 
a better opinion of the Eaton ore, than of the manner in which the 
late attempt was made to raise it from the eart|j^ and separate the 
metal from its foreign associates. 

The Concord stage arriving at 8 in the evening, we took seats in 
it for Conway — a distance of six miles — where I am now sitting, in a 
comfortable apartment, at Abbott's hotel, scribbling for your gratifi- 
cation, or, it may be, making an opiate for you. My companions 
have all retired for the night, and I am here, solitary as the lone owl 
upon the house-top. I am obliged to write, you see, on the wing. 
In these vagabond epistles, — I give you due notice — you must not 
expect to find Euclidian exactness. I will assure you, however, that 
nothing erroneous shall be put down from design — much may be 
from ignorance and from haste. — But I must away from the work of 
the quill. Sleep, with her stupifying wand, has nearly put a period 
to its motion. Your nocturnal lamp — fori now see it with my ima- 
gination's eye — burns dim and blue. It has been standing on the 



16 

hearth, two hours already, wasting its light on you, fast bound in the 
welcome embrace of 

'• Tirfcd nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep." 

May God preserve you. Good night. 

B. K. Z. 



LETTER IV. 

Conway, August IS, 1833. 
My Dear F. — 

The sun had travelled far up the eastern sky — meting out 
the hours of holy time — before we were prepared to come forth from 
our chamber to enjoy his cheering beams. We had expected, that 
our ears would be saluted by the animating music of the little church- 
going bell, but we are now told, that there will be no preaching here 
to-day. The clergyman is absent — gone to attend a literary jubilee 
— the public commencement at Dartmouth College — the only colle- 
giate institution in New Hampshire, founded, as you know, in 1769 
— an institution, around which this joyous anniversary always as- 
sembles a large number of the cultivated intellects of this, and of the 
adjoining States. It is a homage, which the temples of sound learn- 
ing should every whqre witness It is a homage, which the Greeks 
cheerfully, rapturously^ paid at the Academy of Plato, at the Lyceum 
of Aristotle, and at all their public games. This homage we must 
pay to our seminaries of education, or the full foliage of the Ameri- 
can tree of liberty will soon wither and die. Let the love of money 
— the ruling passion of our countrymen — totally supplant the love of 
learning ; let a cheerless apathy brood over the minds of parents, in 
regard to the momentous subject of educating their sons — yes, and 
their daughters too — and shortly our free, and happy, and glorious 
institutions, purchased by the toil, and blood, of our brave forefath- 
ers, will flee away, like chaff before the whirlwind. 

From the sequestered halls of old Dartmouth, how many men, of 
giant intellect, and of exalted worth have gone forth to enlighten, adorn 
and bless the world ! Here were nourished, with the milk of wis- 
dom, the Danas, the Worcesters, the Websters, the Woodburys, the 
Browns, the Tieknors, the Marshes, and a host of others, who have 



17 

already encircled, or who are now encircling, their brows with 
wreaths of undying fame. — But where am I roving ? 

This little village — composed of twenty, or thirty houses, a neat 
church, a commodious school-house, both painted white, and furnish- 
ed with steeples, all standing on a broad alluvial plain, across which 
meanders the sprightly Saco — is, lam told, a sort of family concern, 
belonging to two or three brothers, by the name of Abbott. The 
father planted himself here, in olden time, amidst lofty pines, and 
prowling bears, and the howlings of savage men, and, in process of 
years, sleepless industry, wise economy, sterling integrity and ap- 
proving Heaven, raised him to a respectable independence. A short 
time since, in ripe old age, he sunk into the tomb, and left his chil- 
dren, the unembarrassed proprietors of the large domain, on which he 
had expended the vigor of his manhood, and the decrepitude of his 
hoary years. His sons are men of enterprise and worth. The ta- 
vern, where we lodge, and where we find order, quietness and good 
fare, is kept by one of them. 

White Mountain Post Office, Aug. 19, 1833. 

At the early hour of five in the morning, we betook ourselves to 
the stage, which passes from Portland to Littleton. A copious rain 
had fallen in the night, and swollen the Saco, usually a pigmy stream, 
to a mighty river. Shall I put down all our disasters " by flood and 
field ?" Our destined course lay up this river. On arriving at the 
place where it was to be forded, the driver informed us, that its bot- 
tom, here, was a quick-sand, and that his load — the stage was crowded 
with passengers — must be diminished before he would attempt to 
cross. We, " the lords of creation," readily debarked. The ladies 
— dear creatures — were first to be conveyed over in the stage, and 
then the gentlemen were to be honored with transportation — not to 
Botany Bay — but across this mountain Styx. The fairest and love- 
liest of our party we saw landed safe, without a limb broken, or a 
hair displaced, on the opposite bank. At that moment, a little one- 
horse wagon came up. Our cocher called out " let two of the gen- 
tlemen come over in the wagon, that my next load may be lighter." 
Two of our number complied, but your humble servant was not, I 
assure you, one of them. The gentlemen stood erect in the little 

3 



crazy vehicle, whilst the rustic waggoner took his station On the for- 
ward deck. The horse, proud of his genteel cargo, rushed forward, 
fearlessly, into the the middle of the torrent, and, there became fixed 
and moveless as Mount Atlas. The owner, armed with a hickory 
cudgel, now commenced active operations, first on his broad sides, 
then in front, and then astern, but all to no purpose. Bucephalus, 
Gallio like, " cared for none of these things." In the meantime, the 
whole affair was sijiking deeper and deeper in the yielding quick- 
sand — approaching nearer and nearer Simmes' farm, and who could 
decide that this was not the very entrance to it — perhaps the only one. 
The ladies, standing on yonder terra firma, in imminent danger of 
losing their bigger halves, were greatly alarmed. The torrent was, 
indeed, angry and powerful, and seemed, instantly, on the point of 
sweeping away horse, wagon and cargo to the boundless Atlantic. 
After our companions had remained ten or fifteen minutes in this 
perilous situation, the stage came to their rescue. 

Being all safely over the water, we moved onward to Bartlett — 
sixteen miles from @onway — where we were refreshed with a good 
breakfast, at which we had the honor of the driver's company — no 
uncommon occurrence, we are told, in this boreal portion of the 
Union. And who would not desire this honor, when he saw, that 
the manager of the steeds was a well-dressed, a well-behaved, a well- 
informed man of thirty-five, tall, vigorous, ruddy-cheeked ; and was 
assured, that he was the sole proprietor of the line of stages, which 
ply between Conway and Littleton : and more especially, when he 
learned, that this gentleman stage-driver was one of the sage mem- 
bers of the sage legislature of the Neo-Hantoniensien commonwealth. 
You need not contract your risibles, Miss, These things are so. 
They are all matters of fact. " I'll be shot if they a'nt" — so be tran- 
quil, and listen. The passengers actually contended with each other 
for the privilege of sitting on the driver's seat to converse with the 
legislator. The individual, to whom the prize was finally awarded, 
obtained, from his communicative lips, a fund of information, touch- 
ing the principal measures of the incorruptible, immaculate managers 
of the legislature of New-Hampshire. — "But, enough of this." — 
No, let me edge in one word more. "Well, do it in a hurry." 
The drivers, in New England, I have found to be — to speak gene- 



19 

rally — the very antipodes of our's at the south. These are the own- 
ers, or, at least, the co-sharers of the profits of the concern ; our's 
are mere hirelings, sheer eye-servants ; these are careful, obliging, 
industrious — it is their interest to be so — our's are heedless, indo- 
lent, often headstrong and insolent. 

From Bartlett, we travelled over seven miles of undulating lands, 
gently ascending, however, and then halted for a few moments, at a 
decent looking inn. It was kept by a most venerable old man, 
whose snow-white locks the last century began to bleach, and yet 
he walks with the firm step of manhood, erect, as the beautiful firs 
of the forest, which surrounds his lone abode. His name is Craw- 
ford, and he is well known by all, who have visited this romantic 
region within the last fifty years. 

Here a most magnificent panorama — a scene altogether novel and 
stupendous — opened on our delighted vision. A valley, ten or 
twelve miles in length, and three or four in width, lay before us, 
encompassed by walls of granite — built by the hand of Omnipotence 
— of astonishing altitude and of frightful steepness. 

"The mountains that infold, 
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, 

Seem'd groups of giant kings, all dress'd in gold, 
That guard the enchanted ground." 

This is, indeed, I could not help exclaiming, the Switzerland of the 
West. Such amazing grandeur — such terrific majesty, in the Al- 
mighty's works, I had never before witnessed. 

Somewhere in this valley, a love-sick damsel, in times of yore, 
while following her loving swain, who had, unknown to her, depar- 
ted from Jefferson, where they both resided, on a visit to a neighbor's 
in Bartlett — only thirty miles distant — found a snowy grave. The 
story is told by Dr. Dwight, who had more time and talent to tell it, 
than I can command. — As soon as a shoe was set on one of the hor- 
ses, we were again in motion. 

The next pause in our travels was at the Willey-house, — six 
miles up the lonely valley — in which no sounds were heard, save 
the murmurings of the Saco — now reduced to a diminutive streamlet 
— whose waters — like the wheels of time — were hurrying forward 
to he lost in the "vasty deep." Our eyes remained constantly rivet- 



20 

ted to the everlasting mountains, which accompanied us on our right 
hand, and on our left, around whose towering summits the clouds 
were ever frolicking, and whose long sides were striped, like ribbon- 
jasper, by the memorable avalanches of 1S26. 

The Willey-house ! The stillness of the grave dwells here. 
Around it reigns " desolation horrific." Stones of fifty tons weight, 
and trees, without number, had been hurled from the lofty crags, 
and cast headlong on the world below. The house is small — asingle 
story — having three or four contracted apartments. The different 
rooms exhibited nothing but broken chairs, broken vessels and straw. 
I need not relate to you the fate of its former peaceful, contented 
inmates. It is already known to you, and to all Christendom. I 
had heard of it, long since, in a distant State. But we were now on 
the identical spot, where the sad catastrophe occurred. Our imagi- 
nations pictured it as actually present, in all its freshness, and horror 
and solemnity. We felt, as those did, who walked over the battle- 
grounds of Chippewa, or Waterloo, the clay after the deadly conflict 
took place; or as those do, who ramble, at dusky eve, among a wilder- 
ness of sepulchres, just built, and filled with the remains of the dead. 
The grave, it is said, preaches — and so does the Willey-house. 
Who can enter its thresh-hold, without reflecting on the change, the 
great, the momentous, the final change, which will shortly, and may, 
in an unlooked for hour, come over him ? 

None, but Heaven, knows the sensations of this lamented family 
on that awful night, when, far removed from human aid, and human 
counsel, the lightning, riving into shivers the sturdiest trees of the 
forest, poured down on the affrighted mortals an unintermitted stream 
of liquid fire ; when the thunders rolled, and echoed, among the 
mountains, and the water rushed from the dense and angry clouds, 
not in rain, but in torrents, like those, which deluged the old world ; 
when the rocks, and trees, and brush-wood, and soil, far up the 
mountain sides, loosened from their hold, came tumbling down, with 
more than earthquake sound. The elements were in wild uproar. 
I have said, the inhabitants of this isolated dwelling were alone. It 
is true; none were near, but God, and the angel of the storm. On 
every side, ghastly death stared them full in the face. In the midst 
of dangers, like these, who would not be terrified ? The Willey- 



21 

house-hold, in the most fearful state of alarm, fled from their abode, to 
seek safety somewhere — they knew not where — and in their flight, 
were overtaken by an avalanche, and all — nine in number — were 
hurried into the unseen world. 

The house is occupied in winter, we were informed, by two men, 
who furnish accommodations, of some sort, to teamsters and others, 
who are obliged to travel, in this dreary season, through this unin- 
habited wild. 

From the Willey-house, we proceeded through the Notch — a 
deep, and narrow, and dark defile in the mountains, scarcely wide 
enough for the road, and the little Saco to pass — to Thomas Craw- 
ford's — a twig of the old tree, of the same name, already mentioned. 
The distance is two miles. 

On the way, our attention was drawn to an object, at which a 
dweller on the rugged Alps, who is accustomed to view nature, clad 
in her grandest robes, would look with astonishment. It is a cascade, 
on the right of the road, the most picturesque, and beautiful, in my 
judgment, that man ever fixed his eyes on. " The stream runs over 
a series of rocks, almost perpendicular, with a course, so little bro- 
ken, as to preserve the appearance of an uniform current, and yet so 
far disturbed as to be perfectly white." C 'est un spectacle vraiment 
mugnifique. It is of the size of a small mill-stream, and comes dan- 
cing down from rock to rock, from the height of near a mile, dash- 
ing and foaming, and resembling a continuous sheet of snow, stretched 
over the gray granite. This charming object — this cascade of liquid 
silver — is, my dear F., no fiction, nor is it of recent origin. It is a 
reality, it has been here, murmuring the same unvaried minstrelsy, 
night and day, ever since the waters of the Mosaic flood were assua- 
ged, and Mount Washington raised its hoary summit above the sur- 
face of the briny deep. It has been the charm of thousands, and 
will yet be the charm of millions. We gazed at it ten minutes, in 
silent admiration. But I will leave it, undescribed. It is too fine, 
too sublime, to be meddled with by my blunt pen. It merits the 
pencil of a David, or a Morse. 

We reached the " Upper Crawford's" — the first-born of the old 
patriarch, who resides at the foot of the mountain — precisely at two, 
P. M. This is the most elevated land in the United States, over 



22 

which a public road passes. We are making preparations for ascend- 
ing Mount Washington to-morrow. You may expect to hear from 
me again, on the- evening of that day, if the fatigue of the excursion 
do not send me too early to bed. 

B. K. Z. 



LETTER V. 

Summit of Mount Washington, Aug. 20, 1S33. 
I commence this letter, dear F., on the pinnacle of the lof- 
tiest mountain* in the United States, east of the Mississippi ; where, 
or when, it will be completed, I know not. I am now seated on a 
rock ; a rock is my table, and a rock my footstool. 

At seven, in the morning, we took up our march for the moun- 
tain. The company consisted of seven individuals, viz: a father, a 
rustic, uneducated, good man, with three sons, the youngest, a lad, 
eis;ht, or ten years of age. The old man told me, last evening, that 
he had, some twenty years ago, climbed up this wonderful peak, and 
was so deeply impressed with the power of its Maker, that he had 
promised his sons, if they would be good boys, that he would, when 
they were big enough, bring them here to see the mighty works of 
God. "And now," said he, patting the head of the youngest, " I 
have come to fulfil my promise. They are obedient, industrious 
children, and if I expect to be treated well by them, when I am old 
and helpless, I must treat them kindly, when they are young, and 
perform all my promises to them." What a lesson to parents! 
There is truth in it, and philosophy too. In addition to this family 
and myself, there was a spruce young man, recently married, a 
" Down Easter," who, with his "better half," had come hither to 
while away their honey-moon. He, mounted on his own steed, 
young, gay and prancing, presented a finer figure than any other'in 
the whole cortege. Six of us rode on Crawfordite horses, not over- 

*In a newspaper, notice was given, a short time since, that a mountain in North 
Carolina, had recently been ascertained to be of greater altitude than the White 
Mountains of New Hampshire. Whether this account is to be relied on, or not, I 
have no means, at present, of determining. 



23 

splendidly caparisoned. They were, indeed, shabby enough — had 
long tails, long manes, hair all over uncurried and shaggy, as a buffa- 
lo's. The saddles screaked sadly as we placed ourselves astride of 
them. Some of the bridle-reins were composed of old straps, fasten- 
ed together by knots. 

We cut a sorry figure, I assure you, as we passed off from the inn. 
Our knight-errant, proud of his horse and his equipage, galloped 
away ahead. u That are horse there won't run before us long, I tell 
you," said the guide. " He don't know one tenth part as much as 
our'n does. He ha'nt climbed up these hills sixty-eight times, as 
this 'ere horse has." We rode more than a mile on the turnpike- 
road, which leads to the Notch, and then took a path to the left. 
From the turnpike, we travelled five miles, on a road, incomparably 
worse than the worst of the Virginia horse-paths, and these, you y 
know, are, in all conscience, bad enough. The land, on both sides 
of it, is clothed with trees, fir, birch, spruce, maple and hemlock, of 
the ordinary forest size. The first half of this distance is nearly 
level, the last half gradually ascending, and the whole excessively 
wet. The horses, in many places, sunk in the mud, at every step, 
knee deep. Much of the path was paved, in the Yankee style, with 
rough logs and poles, thrown across it, just far enough asunder to 
allow the animal's feet to slip down between them to an immeasura- 
ble depth. Where the logs are wanting, nature's pavement exists, 
which is still more frightful and dangerous — the roots, interlacing 
with each other, form a sort of net-work, between the threads of 
which, a horse, unaccustomed to such travelling, is, perpetually, 
plunging his feet, and is, sometimes, unable to extricate them. Short- 
ly after entering on this ineffably bad road, our companion of the fleet 
horse fell behind, and often met with trouble. 

"Hallo! there, guide, halloo!" " What's the matter, there," 
thundered out the leader of the caravan, with a voice like Stentor's. 
iC Matter enough, matter enough." " But what ails you !" " Why 
my horse has got his foot fastened among the roots, and can't get it 
out." — " Aye," said the exulting guide to me, who had the honor to 
precede all, but himself, " that's the fine horse !" The alarmed own- 
er continued to vociferate^ "pray come, and help, or the poor crea- 
ture will break his leg." " Never mind," answered the guide, with 



24 

the most provoking non chalance, " have patience, and he will work 
it out." And so he did, but left the shoe. 

We had now reached the head of horse navigation. The animals 
were fastened to branches of trees, and their riders, from this point, 
became pedestrians, and, sometimes, quadrupeds. Moving forward 
a short distance, we arrived at the spot, where formerly stood the 
" Wigwam," or *' Camp," in which those individuals lodged, or, 
rather stayed, over night, who designed to be on the summit at sun- 
rising. Here, a fine, bubbling spring of delicious water, which, 
doubtless, has its origin in an ice-cellar, hidden, somewhere, in the 
wilderness of rocks above us, offered itself for our refreshment. 
Spirits and wine had been proffered us at Crawford's, for our use in 
supporting the fatigues of this day's excursion, but both were decli 
ned. Here, we rested ourselves a few moments under an umbrage- 
ous fir tree — ate our lunch of crackers and cheese, and slaked our 
thirst at this living fountain, whose pellucid liquid was, a thousand 
fold, more agreeable to us, than would have been, that greatest of 
man's foes — au de vie — or rather — au de mort — for it excites, and 
lulls, only to destroy. Between the turnpike and the " camp," we 
crossed the Ammonoosuc six, or seven times, and witnessed, every 
where, in the immense, heterogeneous masses of logs and roots, and 
stones and earth, the desolating effects of the flood of 1826. From 
this resting place, we had three miles to clamber. It was now half 
after nine, and we intended, if possible, to reach the object of our 
toil before mid-day. 

Continuing our march, we soon arrived at the foot of an aclivity 
of four or five hundred feet, in almost perpendicular height. To 
scale that elevation, thought I, hoc opus, hie labor est. It is called 
"Jacob's Ladder." I must stop, a moment, said I to the party, to 
examine the rocks, which form the steps of this physical escalier. 
They are altogether different from any I have seen in the neighbor- 
hood of the mountains. They are mica-slate, and micaceous schis- 
tus. Most of the rocks, which have fallen under my observation, in 
this quarter, are granite, and, here, let me say, once for all, that 
above this point, the mere mineralogist will find few things to inte- 
rest him. He will see huge blocks of gneiss, and a mongrel sort of 
granite, in which are sparingly scattered dodecahedral crystals of 



25 

garnet ; here and there, crystals of mica, black, red and silvery , 
crystalized feldspar, schorl, beryl, magnetic oxide of iron, and horn- 
blende. "Don't stop forever, there, at the head of the Ladder," 
cried the guide to me, in a half angry, and half playful tone. But I 
wish to rest a moment. My legs ache. "Your legs ache ! Then 
they'll ache in earnest, I'll tell you, before they get away up to the 
top of them bald rocks there." 

Advancing a mile farther, we found ourselves surrounded by a 
dense forest, formed of trees of Lilliputian size — none more than ten, 
or twelve feet high ; these were soon succeeded by trees still more 
dwarfish — chiefly the fir — a thousand years old, perhaps, having their 
dark ever-green branches interlocked, and woven together so firmly, 
that we walked on them, without being apprehensive of falling 
through. This was, indeed, a novel scene to me. I was stalking, 
fearlessly along, over the top of a wilderness, which had veiled the 
ground for centuries, and yet not a tree in it rose to one third of my 
own height. For the gratification of your curiosity, I shall bring 
you one of the largest trees, which grow within a mile and a quarter 
of the apex, in my valise ! It is a well-proportioned fir, and was, 
it may be, growing here, when Julius Caesar invaded Great Britain. 
These give place, as you ascend, to those of a minuter grade, being 
only a few inches in altitude ; and these, again, to little else but 
lichens, of numerous species, overspreading most of the rocks, which 
constitute the " Upper Cone." 

I am surprised to find every thing in these Alpine regions out 
of place. The rocks are all broken in pieces — the work of the Ti- 
tans, perhaps, in their wars against the gods — when they hurled 
these ponderous blocks of granite at their foes, as boys now do snow- 
balls. But why not suppose, that this entire cone once constituted 
an integral part of the rocky selenian Appenines, which make so 
prominent a figure on the surface of Madam Luna, and that her 
ladyship, in a fit of hystericks, kicked it off, and whirling, and 
whirling, and whirling, it at length formed a — not water — but rock- 
spout, and was all poured together, in the wildest, and boldest, and 
strangest confusion on this boreal spot. Who can doubt it? None, 
we think, who gives credence to Laplace's theory of meteoric stones. 
In our toilsome journey, and at short distances from each other, we 

4 



26 

met with springs of excellent water, gushing from the crevices of the 
rocks — affording us a luxury, which was exceedingly grateful to our 
parched lips. 

We reached the summit, just as the ruler of day was crossing his 
mid-way line. Our party were in raptures. The prospect! I can- 
not describe it. The pencil cannot. Such a broad horizon — a hun- 
dred and sixty, or eighty miles in diameter — never before expanded 
itself to my vision. My sensations were delightful. The highest 
anticipations we had cherished, of the grandeur of the scene, fell 
infinitely below the reality. All our toil was forgotten. The view, 
from this lofty point, of the world below, and around us, is truly 
magnificent — worth "a voyage" — not only "across the Atlantic," 
but to the Sandwich Islands. The day is superb. The heavens are 
cloudless. No floating vapor dims the noon-day lustre of the sun, as 
he careers, in glory, along the cerulean vault 

We now stand, according to Captain Partridge's admeasurement, 
6234 feet above the level of the ocean. The historian of Vermont 
— Dr. Williams — makes our elevation 7800 feet. Dr. Cutler sup- 
poses it to be 10,000, and Dr. Belknap — the able historian of New 
Hampshire, runs still wider from the truth. The estimates, how- 
ever, of the two last named gentlemen, were the work of the imagi- 
nation — an instrument less trust-worthy than a good barometer, or 
quadrant. 

Travellers have complained of the severity of the cold they have 
experienced here, even in the months of July and August. A Mr. 
Little states, that he was unable to carve his name on the rocks, with- 
out frequently warming his hands. This all-important operation 
was effected by most of our number, and yet no one felt the slightest 
unpleasant sensation of cold. The atmosphere, which rests on Mount 
Washington, is less heated, and less dense, than it is at Crawford's, 
but the difference, in our case, is scarcely perceptible. 

Dr. Cutler says, "The Mountain has three distinct zones. 1st. 
The woods. 2d. The bald mossy part. 3d. The part above vege- 
tation." There is, strictly speaking, no third zone ; for there is no 
part entirely destitute of vegetation. We find grass growing in the 
crevices of the rocks, even on the very pinnacle, and, also, a consid- 



27 

erable variety of other small plants, now in full blossom. Mosses 
occur every where, thinly veiling the rocks in velvet green. 

It is impossible to name a hundredth part of the objects of thril- 
ling interest, embraced within the almost boundless circumference of 
our vision. A number of the peaks of the White Mountains will 
carry down, to a far distant age, the names of the early Presidents of 
the United States, and of other distinguished men, who figured nobly 
in the politico-military drama of the American revolution. Mt. Jef- 
ferson is the first seen on the north from Mt. Washington. The 
next, in the same direction, is Mt. Adams, which, if once seen, will 
never be forgotten. Its apex forms an acuter angle than any of the 
others. Mt. Madison occupies a stand at the east. On the south, 
are Mts. Monroe, Franklin and Pleasant. The last has a sugar-loaf 
shaped summit. 

What ! a pond here ! and placed but a few rods below the very 
acme of Mt. Washington ! Has it any name, guide ? " Yes, it is 
* The Lake of the Clouds'." This, surely, is no misnomer. The 
clouds come here to rest, and to drink, often. Let us go to it. It 
covers more than half an acre of ground, or rather, of rocks. Its 
water is limpid, as the Pit diamond, and deep. We drank of it, and 
never drank better. No fish ruffles its surface, or disturbs its tran- 
quillity. No vegetables are seen on its margin. This "Lake of the 
Clouds," is fed by a small spring, whose waters enter it on the south- 
east, and are the " head stream of the Ammonoosuc." A rivulet, is- 
suing from the lake, commences its descent, and, dashing and roaring 
and foaming, in its headlong course of several thousand feet, is pour- 
ed into the mountain valley, near the "Wigwam." Another sheet 
of water, of less dimensions, appears at a short distance to the north- 
west. 

We returned to the summit, to take a farewell view of a prospect, 
•broader, and more picturesque and grand, than will ever again open 
itself to my mortal eye. — On the south-east and south, we saw, 
with different degrees of distinctness, many mountain peaks of vari- 
ous elevations ; the romantic lake, Winnippiseogee, studded with 
countless islands ; Long pond, Lovell's pond, famous for a battle 
fought near it, by Lovell and the Indians; the valley of the Saco, and 
much of the road, which threads it. The blue Atlantic, unseen by 



28 

us, and Portland, the commercial emporium of Maine, are, it is said, 
clearly visible by the aid of a telescope. On the north-east, we over- 
looked the vale of the Androscoggin, replete with wild and interesting 
scenery. On the north, appeared the glassy surface of lake Umba- 
gog, environed by a rough, uncultivated, inhospitable country. To 
the south-west, the Grand Monadnoc raises his bald head a little 
above the dusky horizon. On the west, your eye surveys the beau- 
tiful valley of the Connecticut, and, beyond it, the long range of the 
Green Mountains ; and, still further off, if I do not misjudge, the 
lofty mountains, situated in New York, west of lake Champlain, are 
indistinctly visible. 

To sum up the whole in five words — I must say, that the pros- 
pect from Mount Washington is unique. It is like nothing else. It 
is sublime in the highest degree, but it is the sublimity of nature, un- 
aided and alone, or rather, of nature's God. Art has had no hand in 
the manufacture of the objects exhibited, or in their presentation. 

It is altogether unlike the prospect from St. Paul's in London, 
where you look down on a million and a half of your fellow-beings, 
diminished to dwarfs, all in hurried motion, jostling, and impeding 
each other in their progress ; and by enlarging the circle a few miles, 
you embrace another million ; with villages countless, sumptuous 
villas, fine roads, radiating in all directions 5 Greenwich Hill, sur- 
mounted by the Royal observatory, Westminster Abbey, where rest, 
in undisturbed repose, the ashes of poets, and warriors, and states- 
men, and their royal masters ; the Thames, pursuing silently, his 
meandering course, through this little world of human habitations, 
and, lined on either side, as far down as the eye can reach, with ships 
innumerable from all nations. Here, most that appears in the superb 
picture, is the workmanship of man. 

It is unlike the view from Salisbury Craig, in old Scotia, where 
your eye is greeted by a landscape of superlative beauty, comprehen- 
ding the Athens of Great Britain — Edinburgh — the Old town, with 
long and narrow, and filthy streets, and lofty houses contrasting, for- 
cibly, with the spacious, cleanly streets and magnificent buildings of 
the New city — Holy-Rood House, the habitation of the ancient 
Scottish monarchs — the Frith of Fourth, rolling its mighty tide into 
the German ocean — and a broad rim of country, on all sides, made up 



29 

of hills and dales, chequered with country seats, and groves, and cul- 
tivated fields, rendered rich as the garden of God. These prospects 
interest and charm the eye of the beholder ; but there is nothing in 
them, which fills the mind with astonishment and shivering awe. 
As to grandeur and solemn sublimity, they are vastly inferior to 
the view afforded from the loftiest of the White Mountains. This 
huge pile of primitive matter, essentially the same it was, when it 
came from the creative hand of Omnipotence — an immeasurable 
waste of rocks, overspread with lichens, and dwarfish evergreens, 
and margined by a dense, dark wilderness, which the axe will, pro- 
bably, never level — is doomed, by the rigors of its elimate, to remain 
unaltered to the end of time. 

" Descensus averni facilis." We arrived at Crawford's at six 
in the evening. There we continued, till the Portland stage of to- 
day made its appearance. We took passage in it for Littleton, where 
we now are, and where I intend to finish this already too long 
epistle. — Most of the country, between Crawford's and this place, 
is rough and in a state of nature, but is capable of being converted 
into the best land for pasturage. The road is passable, but not 
good. 

What do I see ? A company of Indians ? It is so ; and who 
knows, but they are descendants of the once independent, but now 
humbled and pealed people, who were the original owners of this 
rich and lovely valley. A party of forty or fifty of the Aborigines — 
composed of men, squaws and pappooses — actually are encamped but 
a few rods from the inn, where we are resting our jolted frames j 
some smoking, some throwing stones, some standing idle, some ly- 
ing on the ground, some mothers toting about their infant offspring 
in baskets slung over their backs, and some offering brooms, and 
other articles of their own manufacture, for sale. I have not learned 
for what purpose they are here, nor have I time to go and interro- 
gate them on the subject, as the tyrannic driver, under whose iron 
government we have placed ourselves, will allow us to remain in this 
village only fifteen minutes. 

It is now 7 o'clock, P. M. We must travel nearly the whole 
night, crossing the Connecticut river on a bridge, to Concord, and 
thence, feeling our way, in moonless darkness, through forests and 



30 

over hills and dales, to Montpelier, the capital of Vermont. There 
we shall breakfast, and then pass onward, down the Onion river, ho- 
ping to reach Burlington at 4 o'clock, P. M., and take our births in 
the lake Champlain steam-boat, which will convey us, while locked 
in the arms of the old god of sleep, to White Hall, N. Y., in time 
for an early breakfast. There we shall resort to the stage, or canal- 
boat, which will bring us to Saratoga at the moment the tout le mond, 
assembled there, will be dining. Thence the rail-road car will whirl 
us forward to Albany, in season to take our places in a North-river 
steam-boat, which will arrive at the city of Gotham, soon after the 
dawning of the following day. We shall then step, immediately, 
into a Philadelphia boat, and reach that city at an early hour in the 
afternoon. We shall there take an evening boat, and expect to ar- 
rive at B. in the gloom of midnight — perhaps, before this letter will 
come into your hands — being — according to my hasty computation^T- 
but 80 hours in travelling from the White Mountain Post Office to 
the Monumental city — a distance of more than 600 miles ! Had my 
good old grandmother, who, by the by, lived hi the neighborhood of 
Salem, only dreamed, that her child of the third generation, would 
have been borne over such a space, in so brief a period, she would, I 
am persuaded, have been hung, or drowned for a witch. 

I have now, my dear F., in some manner, fulfilled my promise, 
to give you the incidents of our tour. — The hurried sketch has, I 
trust, contributed to enliven the solitary hours of our absence. But 
the stage is waiting. 

Adieu, 

B. K. Z. 



H 106 89 



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